Shakedown Page 2

  Repeated blasts from the dog whistle, the one that was supposed to bring the brilliantly trained bomb sniffer from the ends of the earth, produced neither hide nor hair. And she couldn’t get a signal on the cell phone, despite the military sort-of-surplus antenna on the roof. Well, signals were problematic at best, here in the mountains and the middle of nowhere. Bonnie shimmied up the ladder to the loft and flicked on the AN/PRC-77 radiotelephone, preset to the park ranger station’s channel.

  “Pine Springs Station, Pine Springs Station, this is Whiskey Five Zulu.” Impatience bit at her. “Neal, Terri, are you there?”

  The radio crackled. “Pine Springs Station here, Whiskey Five Zulu. It’s Terri, hon. What’s wrong?”

  “Terri, my new dog arrived today and he’s already run off. I’m going to try chasing him down with the jeep. Leave the channel open for me?”

  More crackling as the pause dragged out. Bonnie pressed her lips together. Terri Thomas was sweet and big-hearted. She’d understand hunting for a lost dog, even though the park was closed for the night and the rangers home around a television and fire. But Terri wouldn’t approve the hunt without a nod from Neal, her husband and the senior ranger. While Neal had gone along with Bonnie’s plan for a dog and horse, he hadn’t hidden his lack of enthusiasm. She didn’t like Pojo, but he was her responsibility.

  She couldn’t abandon him. No matter what Neal said when he took over the mike.

  No matter how much, for one desperate second, she yearned to.

  “Whiskey Five Zulu,” a new, deeper voice said, “this is Pine Springs Station. It’s Neal, Bonnie. Go ahead and get your dog. But take a rifle along as well as the radio. I found what was left of another mule deer up on McKittrick Ridge today, a bare mile from the Grotto.”

  A cold fist squeezed inside her chest. The limestone Grotto was less than a mile from her cabin. If the cougar was ranging that close, then Pojo was in grave danger.

  “I copy that, Pine Springs Station. Thanks, Neal.”

  “I’ll keep the channel open for you, hon.” Terri’s voice again. “Pine Springs Station out.”

  Meaning Terri would stay up later than she wanted to, until she heard back from Bonnie. She had to find Pojo fast. “Whiskey Five Zulu out.”

  Radiotelephone and box flashlight on the passenger seat, floodlight in the back, leash and dog whistle in her pocket, and M1 Garand rifle behind the seats with three extra en bloc clips tucked into her belt: ready for the hunt. Bonnie jammed the starter with her thumb and the Willys MB rumbled to life. New tires crackled through gravel, and then she eased the Jeep past the alligator juniper and over that steep, blind slope onto the mountain road.

  Headlights washed over the forest, swept past tree trunks and somber branches, and finally settled onto gravel as the Willys MB rolled onto the road. The backwash lit the rock face to her left and fell over the slope on her right. Of course, by now Pojo was nowhere in sight.

  Likely she wouldn’t see him if he was. Full dark had overtaken the Guadalupe Mountains, the moon hadn’t yet risen, and she couldn’t make out the top of Frijole Ridge, much less a dog lost in the forest. And the open Willys MB wouldn’t provide any protection against a hunting cat if it jumped from a ledge above. She was taking an awful chance for a dog she didn’t even like, one that hadn’t shown any interest in her. Her heart pounded harder. Maybe she should call the rescue group and let them take Pojo back. Maybe that would be the best way to handle this.

  But she had to find him first.

  At the first switchback, Bonnie stood on her brakes and blasted the dog whistle. He’d answer. He had to. Chill night air crept up her arms and worked its way inside her fatigues. Was that a distant bark, buried beneath the rumbling four-cylinder? She set the brake, cut the engine, blew the whistle again, and listened, closing her eyes as she strained her ears. The breeze sighed and branches rustled. No, nothing.

  The brute could at least have looked at her.

  Another try at the second switchback above the Grotto, braking, killing the engine, and blowing the whistle. This time, something rustled to her right, and a branch cracked. She scrabbled with the flashlight and swept the beam around as a grey-brown shape ambled downhill and into the forest, not hurrying. Javelina, a wild pig as big as Pojo but with tusks as well as teeth and attitude. No dog.

  And no blood. Javelina would eat anything, but the flashlight showed no horrid stains or splashes. She steadied her breathing, flicked off the light, pressed the starter, and drove on.

  Another try at the dip, another partway up the climb to the ridge’s shoulder, and another atop the saddleback pass, straddling Frijole Ridge’s spine. The waning moon rose ahead, a lopsided tear cried by the night. It was getting late. She should return, check in with the ranger station, and let poor Terri get to bed. If Pojo wanted to be found, she’d have found him.

  If she was looking in the right direction. If he hadn’t left the road at some point. He could have gone deeper into the park, where she’d have to hunt him on foot since she didn’t yet have a horse. But if he had followed the road and climbed the ridge, and if she was close behind him, the park’s border wasn’t far beyond. Cattle ranchers shot stray dogs to protect their herds. The bigger and more threatening the dog, the sooner the bullet.

  Her knotted innards made mincemeat of the lasagna. What a nightmare. She hadn’t seen anything living since the javelina, hadn’t heard anything except the Willys MB’s engine. No barking, no clicking toenails, no dying animal screams of pain. One more blast on the whistle, and one more time listening to the wary night. Nothing. Sorry, Terri. Bonnie started the engine and drove on.

  She followed the road down the ridge’s far side, stopping and blowing the whistle at every landmark. The moon climbed higher; the night slipped past. At the intersection with the lane leading to the park entrance, the locked gate barred her service road, painted metal bars reflecting her headlights into mockery. Bonnie slammed her hands down on the steering wheel, slumping in the seat.

  Quitting didn’t taste very good, but there was nothing more she could do tonight. She owed Terri a call and an apology.

  And she owed a lost dog a greater effort in the morning. No matter his possible emotional problems. And no matter her ultimate decision, keep him or send him back. While her decision might boil down to his attitude, finding him didn’t.

  She backed and filled, reversing on the road, and headed home, miserable enough to spit.

  ****

  Puffing like a steam engine, Bonnie collapsed beneath a scraggly ponderosa pine—not atop the yucca, the butt wouldn’t appreciate it—with the deepest interior of the Guadalupe Mountains spread out like a bowl below her. Being atop McKittrick Ridge meant being atop the visible world.

  Rock walls folded and puckered along the ridgeline on either hand, then plummeted in cliffs to gentler slopes far below that rolled into the shadows like mesas. The mountaintop grasses had burned from the summer’s drought, leaving shades of tan and brown surrounding her. Only the pines splashed green into the neutral tones.

  Morning sunshine peeking over Frijole Ridge and the promise of coffee had convinced her to cut short an irritable and restless night. A hurried scan of Pojo’s records while slurping hadn’t found any mention of a microchip, which she might have been able to track via radar. She could still try the radar, of course, but without some method of differentiating the traces, she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Pojo, the cougar, a mule deer, or a hiker.

  Instead, she’d packed the radiotelephone and binoculars along with a quart of water, wrapped the M1’s sling across her shoulder, and cut across South McKittrick Canyon to miss the Grotto and any early tourists. No trail in this area, so she’d waded through creosote bushes in the canyon’s depths, danced across the intermittent stream on stepping stones, and pushed herself, step after steep step, up the opposite rise until she’d met the McKittrick Ridge Trail’s lowest switchback.

  With each foot she’d gained in altitude, she
’d cursed Pojo a little worse. By the time she’d scrambled onto the trail, hair plastered to her face and calves screaming for mercy, her language hadn’t been fit for human consumption.

  Every hundred yards, she’d stopped and blown that stupid whistle. She’d used as much air on that thing as she had for walking. Except for the glorious view, neither had done much good. If Pojo had barked in response, she hadn’t heard him.

  Was he frightened, out in the wilds without backup? He hadn’t seemed the sort of soul to frighten easily. No, he’d seemed—and it bothered her even to consider it—for the few brief hours they’d spent together, he’d seemed like a soldier on assignment. As if he’d had a job to do, something important. And while he’d been glad enough for the expensive dog food, he hadn’t let it distract him long from his self-appointed task, whatever that was.

  He’d seemed driven. Obsessed. Like some other soldiers returned from the war, not quite right in the head.

  And that didn’t bode well for any future they might have together.

  Pale limestone rocks dotted the tawny soil around her. It trickled from her cupped hand between her fingers and past her thumb, leaving the pebbles behind. When she rubbed one rock clean on her fatigue pants, shards of something glinted within. Neal, the senior ranger, had talked about the minerals found in the Guadalupe Mountain rocks: mica, chalcedony, calcite. A geology field guide might be entertaining.

  Maybe more so than the dog.

  She flipped the pebble into the void and listened. But she never heard it fall.

  “I don’t understand you, Pojo.” She scooped up another rock, a bigger one, and polished it on her pants leg. No glittery stuff this time, just monotone dove grey. “I don’t think I can be what you need. And since all I’m looking for is a dog—not a challenge, not a fight—well, I don’t think you’ll be all that good for me, either.”

  This rock she hurled over the edge into space. Her pulse thudded twice, three times, four. A distant click and clatter, soon gone.

  “And that’s why I think it’s best if you go back to the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm, kiddo. Because I already have enough soldiers with weird brains around me. Another one isn’t a good idea, especially not one equipped with teeth like yours.”

  In the backpack beside her, the radio crackled. “Whiskey Five Zulu, Whiskey Five Zulu, this is Pine Springs Mobile. Bonnie, you out there, hon?”

  Bonnie tossed aside the pebbles, dusted off her hands, and grabbed the handset. “Pine Springs Mobile, this is Whiskey Five Zulu. I’m on McKittrick Ridge, Terri. What have you got?”

  More crackling. “I think we’ve got your dog.

  ****

  Like a cave out in the open—that’s how she described the Grotto to anyone who asked. Dripping water had eroded a cupped hollow inside the rock face deep enough and high enough for a grown man to take shelter in, but he’d need to mind his head or rap the calcium carbonate stalactites poking from the roof like massive, dirty-white ogre’s fingers. A detour from the main McKittrick Canyon trail led curious hikers to the Grotto, which seemed fitting: most tourists hiked the trail for the canyon’s autumn colors and challenging mountain range, not its curious, hidden-away geology.

  As she approached, a half-dozen hikers slumped at the rock tables and benches, loudly patterned backpacks on the gravel beside them. One slugged from a water bottle, eyeing her balefully as she climbed the rising trail and ducked beneath a maple sapling’s glowing orange fringe.

  Neal stood on the packed dirt and carpet of brown leaves, between the picnic area and the narrow path to the Grotto, his six solid feet like a wall blocking the way. His face resembled the limestone rock behind him—pockmarked, forbidding, set in grim, hard lines. He cradled a Mossberg shotgun, broken open, beneath his left arm. Without speaking, he shifted aside and nodded down the path.

  To where Pojo stood guard.

  The German Shepherd sat stiff and erect in the middle of the path, ears pricked and muzzle low. His coat stuck out in patches, leaf mold and twigs plastered to his hindquarters and back, as if he’d rolled around on the forest floor en route to his sentry point. Those amber eyes, stern and determined, glared at her from the shadows head-on, a make-my-day invitation. At least he wasn’t showing any teeth, not yet.

  He’d positioned himself a foot before a narrow point in the path, where tumbled rocks edging it on either side and the rock wall’s overhang made it impossible to step around him. It seemed odd that a dog had the intellectual capacity to select such a clever tactical position: no one could visit the Grotto without his permission.

  “He’s not letting anyone past?” The more she thought about it, the odder it seemed. He’d bolted from a comfortable cabin and raced all the way down Frijole Ridge in the dark to guard this spot.

  Perhaps her first impression of him had been correct. The dog was nuts, unhinged by the trauma he’d experienced during the war and not diagnosed by the experts who vetted retiring war dogs for civilian life. Why else would he lay claim to the Grotto, a place she knew he’d never seen before? Why was he ready to protect it from all comers? Why not the cabin and clearing, where he’d eaten and found a comfy sheepskin rug?

  Neal hefted the Mossberg, eased a shell from one barrel, then pushed it back in. “You need to move your dog.”

  “Just shoot the stupid thing.” At the stone tables, the hiker who’d glared at her smacked down his water bottle. “Man, we bought a permit for this trail. I want to be on the ridge camping tonight, and if someone doesn’t get rid of the brute, I’m gonna sue.”

  Bonnie bridled. Great. All she needed to make a bizarre situation worse was a big-mouthed hiker with attitude. Civilian. He’s a no-beating zone. Although he could use one. She shrugged off the backpack and set it aside, then loosened the Garand’s sling across her shoulder and left it in place. She could tell already, she might need it.

  “If anyone shoots him, it’s going to be me.” No matter what other, preferable target presents himself.

  Neal finally turned away from the now-flushed hiker. “That’s fine, Bonnie. Do what you need to do.”

  Pojo still stared at her and, no one else as if he’d never ignored her a moment in his life. Amber eyes glowed. His expression, stance, mien hadn’t changed—perhaps he hadn’t blinked during the interlude.

  Maybe he’d been confused by the similarities between West Texas and Afghanistan. The smells would be different, but the feel of the sand under paw, the afternoon warmth and overnight chill, might have aroused all the old canine memories of sniffing out explosives only to see his handler cut in half. Had it occurred on a narrow path such as this one? Was he watching her to see if she too would dissolve into a patina of red?

  Shoot him, as the hiker suggested. Before he could go further round the twist.

  And take her with him.

  She shook her head. Where had that last thought come from? More to the point, shoot him before he could crack and use his impressive teeth for something besides chewing expensive dog food. Clearly there was something off here. Putting him humanely down seemed the logical, prudent thing to do.

  Logical, yes. Perhaps. But not right. If she simply shot the dog, everyone would be safe, and she’d never have to confront those teeth again, but she’d wonder for the rest of her life what she’d missed. The thought knotted her guts. Whether she’d given a fellow vet sufficient benefit of the doubt. Whether she’d turned over and dusted off enough limestone rocks to figure out what was going on here, what made him tick.

  Whether Pojo was a hopeless case, or whether the one-woman firing squad was undeserved.

  Anything else was murder. And the fragging hiker, and Neal, and all the rest of the world could just go hang until she had that answer.

  Heart pounding, Bonnie waved at Neal to keep back and stepped onto the Grotto trail.

  Pojo stood and shook himself as she slowly approached, a cloud of dust billowing around him and drifting over her on the sighing breeze. She paused, but he didn’t seem aggressive. De
spite his alert stiffness, he acted tired, sort of drooping around his edges, as if he’d stayed awake guarding the path all night and the morning, too. And his determination had cost him. A line of reddish-brown pawprints crisscrossed the path, overlapping in spots. He’d cut a pad during his mad scramble down the gravel road the previous evening, but he hadn’t let that stop him, either.

  Another step, and another. Still no sign of teeth. He held his silence as she held out her hand, and when he sniffed her fingers, it was kind of like a handshake between casual acquaintances. Pointedly, deliberately, he sat down in front of her, barring the path and fixing her with an amber-eyed stare.

  But no teeth. No savagery. If he’d gone crazy, it was a working dog sort of craziness, trying to do a job that didn’t need doing. Not cracking at the pressure and assaulting the hand that fed him.

  Her next breath came easier.

  “Hey, kiddo, what are you doing here?”

  His ears twitched, once at her words and again when she slid her fingers around his muzzle, stroking the side of his head. He accepted the touch without complaint and even nuzzled her hand in passing. But his fixed, intense stare didn’t waver. This blue-collar dog wasn’t inviting distraction.

  Even if his job was insane.

  The grey nose, the one that marked him as a blue Shepherd, scratched against her hand, rough and dry. Didn’t that mark a sick dog? It definitely marked a thirsty one. And he’d proven he wasn’t going to attack her for no reason. Feeling more confident and moving more quickly, Bonnie retrieved the canteen from her backpack. Before she got the cap unscrewed, he was pushing against her, that fixed stare transferred from her to the liquid promise. She poured water into the cap and he slurped it empty as fast as she filled it.